This Should Be Enticing
by Monsieur Prongs
Summary: Series of usually unrelated drabbles, one shots, or whatever you'd like to call them, dealing with Sherlock, John, and the gang. Read, and enjoy.
1. Room 101

The key scraping in the lock rouses John from his restless sleep. He sits up in his chair and rubs his eyes before standing up and pulling the door open. A loud sigh from the other side of the door causes John to open the door faster and peer out.

"Sherlock?" He asks quietly. "You weren't supposed to be home until tomorrow morning."

"My flight was early. Are you going to let me in?"

"I was going to come and get you from the airport."

"It's aeroport, and that's okay. I just got a cab."

"Didn't want you to have to come back exhausted and try to tell the cabby where to go."

"Worked out anyway. Can I come in?" John looks into the hallway, looking for Sherlock before stepping back.

"Yeah. Sorry. What time is it?"

"I'd say about one in the morning."

"Really?"

"Yes." Sherlock shuffles into the flat, leaning against the door to close it.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just…."

"Exhausted."

"Yeah." Sherlock drops his bag on the floor near the door and tries to make his way to his bedroom.

"Sherlock, how long has it been since you've eaten?"

"Two days."

"Sherlock."

"John. 'M so tired I can't think properly."

"Sherlock Holmes, tired."

"It happens."

"I'm going to make you a cuppa. You sit on the couch."

"John, don't you think-"

"No. Sit." John pushes him into the couch cushions. Sherlock doesn't even attempt to get back up. The bags under his eyes are more apparent in the light, his cheeks are sunken and he looks like a skeleton. John tisks quietly under his breath while he makes tea for his friend. "You could have texted me." Sherlock doesn't say anything, but leans back into the cushions, laying his head on the back of the couch. He closes his eyes and shifts on the couch to be more comfortable. "You look terrible. Didn't you take care of yourself out there?"

"'Ohn. You 'ere sleepin' in the chair. Why?" The words came out slurred, but John could still decipher them. Barely.

"I was waiting for you."

"No. You 'ere sleepin' in the chair a' wee'. Why?" John looks up from the kettle and looks at his friend.

"Like I said. I was waiting for you. The flat just isn't the same when it's only me here. I almost went and bought a dog."

"I 'as gone for three days." Sherlock offers a strangled chuckle.

"And I was bored as hell. Here." John hands Sherlock his mug and Sherlock drags his eyes open.

"'Ohn, I can't. 'Oo tired to even try." Sherlock shakes his head weakly and tries to push the mug back into John's hands. He only nudges it enough to knock it off the sofa and the mug shatters on the floor. Sherlock jumps, every nerve in his body alert. "GOD!" He shrieks.

"Sherlock?" He looks down at the broken mug and relaxes into his seat again, breathing heavily. "What's wrong?"

"'Othing."

"Don't. Too early. What's wrong?"

"'Othing." Sherlock wearily rubs his eyes and mumbles under his breath.

"What?"

"'Oom one-o-one."

"Room one hundred and one?" For a response Sherlock nods his head. "What happened in room one-o-one?"

"It was emp'y."

"Empty?" Another nod. "Tell me what happened Sherlock."

"Dreams."

"Bad ones?" A third nod.

"I haven't slept properly in three days." And with that, Sherlock passed out on the sofa, falling to the side as his muscles released and he finally slept.

_24 Hours later_

"John?" Sherlock wakes up in his bed and calls out, not wanting to be alone anymore. The door to his room is opened and John leans against the door frame. Silence. Sherlock lets out a sigh of relief and flops against his bed again. "Sorry." John doesn't say anything but crosses his arms and looks at the bed. Finally,

"I skipped work today. You had an hundred and three fever. What the hell happened Sherlock." Sherlock winces, quietly cursing under his breath. "And don't tell me we'll talk about it later. Because we won't. We'll talk about it right now." John's silhouette leaves the door frame only to reappear with a tray. "I brought you this." He lays it across Sherlock's lap and moves to turn the light on.

"Don't." Sherlock calls after John and then he looks down at the tray on his lap. "What is it?" John pulls the chair from Sherlock's desk and drags it to the bed.

"What?"

"What did you make me?"

"Soup. Obviously." Sherlock offers a small smile at the attempt to cheer him up. "Well that's something innit? A smile. What's wrong?"

"Room one hundred and one."

"You said last night."

"I did?"

"Before passing out on the couch. I had to carry you in here."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. Just start talking now or I'll have Mycroft come over." Sherlock's eyes widen,

"Anyone but Mycroft. Please."

"So start talking."

"Is nothing sacred?"

"No. Start." Sherlock sighs and puts the spoon down before beginning.

"I had room one-o-one at the hotel Mycroft arranged for me. When I checked in the clerk looked surprised. In curiosity I asked him why he was so surprised. He promptly told me that no one checked into room one-o-one. Caught now I asked him why. He replied that it was mostly superstition and that there really was nothing to be wary of, so pushing it out of my mind I went up."

"Are you serious?"

"What?"

"Are you trying to scare me or something?"

"No!" Sherlock looks horrified.

"Because you told me you didn't believe in the supernatural, that everything has an explanation."

"I was getting there John. If you had let me continue you would have-"

"I get it. Sorry. It sounded like a ghost story or something. Continue."

"Thank you. Anyway, I toured the room and then left my stuff to work on the case. The police in that area led me to the crime scene and tried to tell me what had happened. Obviously they were wrong and I told them so. They got upset and sent me to the hotel. In frustration I went to the café down the street, I wasn't going to be bullied by those idiots that don't know how to solve crime. I had just sat down when my phone buzzed. Surprisingly it was the detective-inspector from that area that was calling. He wanted me back."

"Bet you gloated."

"Not openly. Let me continue."

"Sorry."

"I went down there again and this time they actually listened to what I had to say. And we uncovered some more evidence. That night I treated myself to a good meal in preparation of an investigation."

"Where is this going?"

"You wanted to know what happened."

"You've turned it into a twenty minute long story."

"Shall I continue?"

"Sorry."

"That night I couldn't sleep."

"Why?"

"Multiple reasons. Mainly because it was too hot, and the air conditioning made a frightful noise. But after a while I slipped away. That's when the dreams started." Sherlock visibly shudders before continuing, "At first they weren't so bad. Things I had seen before, things I was used to. But then it got worse."

"Worse how?"

"Just…. Worse. Things I had seen before but deleted. Things I never want to see. My mind got creative and decided that seeing things that never happened, but making it real and horrible. In the morning I was hardly rested, my bed was soaked and my throat was sore. I took a shower and went to work again, thinking nothing of it. The clerk asked me how my night was and I told him fine. He didn't believe me. And then he told me that they could hear my screams on the first floor. I apologized and left, forgetting about it. That night when I came back from a frustrating day of no results I tried to sleep. The nightmares came back, tenfold." Sherlock closes his eyes, squeezing his lids together against the memory. "The next morning I was so sleep deprived that I stayed at the hotel and emailed the police about the case. I wrapped it up in less than an hour." Sherlock pauses.

"Go on."

"Well last night was the worst. It felt like…." He shivers again, "it felt like I was dying. All I wanted to do was die. I don't—God." He shakes his head and wipes at his face, tugging on his lips, "And then I got sick all over the room. I'm surprised you didn't notice that I was covered in vomit."

"I noticed as soon as I got close enough to smell it."

"I decided that I had to get home as quick as possible. I still feel awful. I don't want to sleep, or eat, or anything."

"Your fever has gone down but that doesn't mean that you aren't sick. You're staying in bed for the next few days."

"Don't blog about this."

"Never."

"Thank you John. I can always count on you." He places his head in his hands and leans back against the head of his bed.

"Yeah. Don't get sick on your bed again. I had to clean the sheets twice already."

"I don't remember."

"You wouldn't. You were sleeping." The room is silent for a minute and John stands up, taking the tray from Sherlock's lap. "That's cold. I'll heat it for you."

"Thank you."

"You need rest."

"I don't need to sleep."

"What's the 'rational explanation' for your dreams?"

"Someone slipped me something."

"Simple as that."

"As simple as it has to be."


	2. Of Course

_Sherlock_

"John." I call up the stairs. "JOHN!" I sigh. Dull. I check the time, three in the morning. Why is he sleeping when there is finally something fun going on? I sigh again, louder this time and shout up the stairs one more time, "JOHN! GET YOUR ARSE DOWN HERE!" If I have to go up there…. The thought remains unfinished as I trudge up the stairs. I slowly push open his door, and tread quietly on the squeaky floor boards. Knowing John, he'll be on full alert and might accidently shoot something if he wakes up too suddenly. "John!" I whisper next to his pillow. Cautiously I shake his shoulder. He simply rolls over, and remains asleep. It'd be tranquil if I weren't so annoyed. "JOHN!" I holler, losing patience. John instantly wakes, groping for his gun and scanning the room.

"Oh shi- Sherlock. Go to bed!" He exclaims when he sees me.

"I need your help." He looks like he's about to say some more, but then he closes his mouth and flops back onto his pillow.

"Can't it wait Sherlock?" I consider for a moment.

"Not really no." He sighs tiredly and clambers out of bed.

"It better be pretty important."

"It's a case." He freezes at the door.

"No no no no no. Sherlock. No."

"But you haven't even heard it yet."

"And I don't want to. I'm supposed to be sleeping."

"Dull."

"As should you."

"Again. Dull." John sighs loudly and flicks the light on. I cringe at the sudden brightness. He rubs his face and tramps down the stairs to make himself a cuppa.

"Sherlock, are you going to explain?" He calls over his shoulder, and I allow a small smile to creep across my face. Predictable. I follow him down the stairs.

"But of course." He puts the kettle on and pulls out his chair, taking a seat and looking at me expectantly.

"Well."

"Well what?" I ask, leaning against the door frame.

"Why have you gotten me up at three in the morning? What case could possibly have so much bearing that you need me?" I smile.

"It's one from the queen."

"_THE _Queen? " I smile again at his obvious surprise.

"Of course. Mycroft handed the case over to me." John looks surprised.

"Why?"

"Because," I mimic his voice, "'it requires leg work'" John smiles at that. He's in good humor for being woken up at three in the morning. The kettle starts to whistle and John gets his cup of tea.

"Tea?" he offers, holding out a cup. I shake my head. John sits back down and I look over him for a moment. It's odd that someone like him, and someone like me can actually live together. Let alone be in a way, friends. He looks up at me as he sits down. "What are the details?" He asks, eyes alight.

"Hm?" I ask distractedly.

"The details Sherlock," he prompts, "for the case."

"Oh. I already have the case figured out." For a minute I think that John might get angry, but he never does.

"Then-?" He's confused, but not angry. "Do you need my help or not?" He asks me before sipping his tea.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes I need your help. We're doing a bit of burglary." He halfway smiles.

"At three in the morning?"

"Of course!" I walk into the living room, and hold the door for him, "Go get dressed. I'll get a cab, and we can be off." He cocks his head to the side as he looks at me from the table.

"You're a strange one Sherlock." Is all he says.

"And we're late. If we don't leave now, they'll be awake by the time we arrive, so I suggest getting dressed, unless on that off chance that we _do_ get caught, you're caught in your sleepwear." That does get a grin out of him and he races up the stairs to change. Leaving a mug of still steaming tea on the table as I shut the door to the quite flat.

_HELLO STONE HENGE! _

_Actually, just hello everyone who has waited for me! Thank you for staying tuned! It has been one HELL of a month and I've been busy and hot, and boring. I won't go into detail because although it was the most fun I've had in quite a long time, it would be inappropriate to make you suffer. Anyway. This wasn't what it was going to be when I started writing, I was going to do an adaptation of 'The Adventure of the Three Garridebs' which is probably what I'll do tomorrow. The cup of tea may come into later things, I have not decided yet, it was just a good image to end in, and maybe a good image to bring Moriarty into in a future fic. Maybe. Ha hah hah. Anyway, thank you all a bunch for sticking around. I know I haven't taken very good care of you guys, and I intend to take better care of you in the future. Don't forget to review for me, because it brightens my day, and I get to brag about it on Tumblr. And I like handing out invisible plates of cookies. _

_Anyway, thank you all. Be on the lookout for more. And I hope to see more of you guys' lovely usernames and reviews in my email inbox! Sorry this was so short! PLEASE FORGIVE ME! _

_Until Gallifrey is free,_

Time Lord Victorious


	3. Obsession

This is the story of the umbrella. Just thought I should tell you.

_Mycroft age: 23_

I sit quietly, alone, on the bench. Dreading the downpour that is sure to come, and wishing I had brought my umbrella. Silently, I sigh. Sherlock isn't coming, Sherlock never makes the effort to come and see me. This rivalry is childish, and people will get hurt. I stand up as the clouds over heard knit together even more and the low sound of thunder rumbles loudly. I glance up at the sky and sigh again. Maybe I can call a cab before it starts to- Never mind. The rain pelts down, bouncing off the ground before settling in puddles. I blink slowly, and sigh again. Within seconds my clothes are soaked and I stand in the middle of the park, shivering. Oh umbrella, why have I left you in the can near the door? I muse before proceeding to walk down the pavement toward the main road. Why do these things always happen to me? Sherlock has most certainly never been caught in the rain, he doesn't go out enough. If I get sick…. My thought trails off as I continue to shuffle down the pavement, looking for a cab that could drive in this deluge of rain. A car drives past me, gutter water rising over the curb with it's speed. I close my eyes, knowing full well, that it's going to hit me. Sopping and now smelling of sewer I continue my journey. I know every back street in London, I know how to get home. So getting lost is _not_ an issue. It's the getting home that is. I'm filthy, cold, and wet, and the house is miles from here. I check my watch out of habit and discover that yes, it's broken, and so it's still half past five in the afternoon, and will be for the next few hours as I will continue to check my watch. I sigh again. I look up at the sky accusingly.

My nose is cold.

My fingers are cold.

My toes are cold.

My tie is wet.

My hair is wet.

My nose is cold. The same thoughts pass through my head as I trudge down the roadside. No cabs, and the rain shows no sign of letting up in the slightest. This means I will probably be staying in bed for…. I make a quick calculation, two weeks or so? Give or take. And with a career in the government….. That won't look good. As much as I hate to admit it now, I wish Sherlock had shown up, that way I could have gone home sooner. I rub my nose in an attempt to warm it up a little. I sigh and kick at the pavement. I shove my hands in my pockets and continue to stroll. I check my watch again. Half past five. I begin to wonder what the real time is, how long have I been out here? A sudden noise causes me to look up, the sound of a cab. Different than a normal car, they sound just a little different, and there is one, peaking the hill, driving slowly, but surely. The light's on, I can hail it. A smile crosses my lips as I step up to the curb,

"TAXI!" waving my hand for it to stop. It pulls up to the curb and I clamber inside, telling the cabby happily my house number. He nods and pulls away from the curb, turning the cab around and heading toward my house. I shiver in the back seat, the sudden change in atmosphere causing chills. And then I realize that it probably wasn't a smart idea to get into a cab after hours in the rain. My nose itches and I sneeze. I sigh impatiently. I'll be getting sick. I can already feel it in my bones. A small, nearly soundless cough wiggles in my throat and I roll my eyes. The cab stops outside of my house, and I get out, reaching into my pockets to pay the man. With a dejected sigh I pull out the soggy wad of notes and peel them apart to give the cabby the proper amount. He doesn't look to happy about being handed sopping wet money, and mentions something about an umbrella before driving off. I shake my head. If only I had had my umbrella. I rummage around in my pockets, searching for my keys as I walk up to the door. Sighing I push against the door when I turn the key in the lock and stumble into the house ungracefully. I sigh again. Today is _not _my day. I tromp up the stairs towards my room to put on some dry clothes and huddle under my blankets with a cuppa and a bowl of soup. I glare at the umbrella in the can next to the door and nearly trip on the stairs by doing so.

_One Day Later_

The sun is refusing to come out. Rain still pours from the sky, relentless. My phone pings, letting me know I have a text.

_How are you?_

_SH_

I smile, idiot. He's doing it to mock me. I sneeze into my blankets before replying,

_I went home before you showed up._

_Stood you up this time._

_MH_

The reply is nearly instantaneous.

_Liar._

_SH_

I hate him. Another ping, another message before I could reply.

_Shall I get you an umbrella so you never have to deal with rain again?_

_SH_

He's taunting me. I don't reply and just lay back in my bed, wrapping my fleece blanket more closely around me. I've moved my umbrella. After my warm shower, I didn't want it to get lost, or for me to forget it ever again. It's on the back of my door, swinging by the curved handle. It's a plain black one, but I love it because it's dull. Like me, as Sherlock would say. It's nice. A good umbrella. I like umbrellas. I like them a lot. They are my favorite things. They keep me dry, they make it so I don't get sick, and if I always carry one, I can't be surprised by rain. They are good accessories, and they look good on ties. Umbrella's are nice.

"I name you… Charles." I whisper to the empty room. My umbrella seems to like that. I close my eyes and drift to sleep, dreaming about umbrellas.


	4. Chess Part 1

_Jim_

I prop my feet up on the desk and lean back in my chair, a smile slowly creeping across my face. Everything is going perfectly. People are so predictable. That's why it pays to be spontaneous. It pays to be changeable. It's a good trade mark to have.

"Mr. Moriarty, we have a situation." The man at the door states nervously. I look up from my hands and glance at the door.

"A situation?" I question smoothly.

"Aye sir." He pauses before continuing, "One of the contractors has gone missing."

"Missing?"

"We assume the police got him, but we aren't sure." I smile.

"Sherlock Holmes." I murmur under my breath.

"Sir?"

"Oh nothing." I smile again. Just as I thought. The man at the door trembles. I push my chair back and stand, turning to face the man at the door. "I'm just sorry for you." I say quietly, before starting to advance. The man starts to back into the dimly lit hallway. "I can't let my standards slip, not even for you." The man shakes his head and backs straight into a wall. He's taller than me, most of my henchmen are. Even John Watson is taller than me. I tilt the man's chin so that he can see me clearly.

"P-P-P-" He stutters, trying to plead with me. I know I have him now. I smile and he flinches.

"Thank you for telling me Dave, you know I appreciate knowing the comings and goings of my henchmen." I back into my study and close the door smiling, thinking of the face Dave is now pulling. So predictable. I fling myself back into my chair and swivel around to face my desk, moving one of the chess pieces, a pawn forward, while moving the black pawn to take it. I discard the pawn, and sit back to contemplate white's next move. _My _next move. I sift through the useless email that I've received, searching for one that starts properly, the word 'dear'. I'm just so bored now. So bored. My plans cannot move forward without another mess for me to clean up. Another meaningless death.

Although it isn't meaningless.

It's art.

What I do is art. Something to look at, something to be admired. Sadly it doesn't get the appreciation it deserves. My art is rejected and treated as slander. Criminal? Hah. Justice. I shake my head, a faint smile tickling the sides of my mouth. Ah yes.

Art.

I tighten my shoe laces and leave the study, laughing to see Dave still standing stunned against the wall.

Stupid pawn.

I don't know what I'm going to do next. Lie in wait until Sherlock makes his next move. Without a doubt he'll try to strike me. I've left myself open and teasingly close, he has to try and take my king.

This is a game of chess, and I'm the player.

I don't need anyone on my side. All I need are my pawns, and even then…. Even if the last piece I have to control is the king, even if all the bodies of the expired pawns lay before my feet, I will still play. If I am the last player, the king the last piece under my control, I will play. A dangerous game that I mustn't lose. Too much is at stake. And then again.

Too.

Little.

Sometimes I feel as if I'm playing just to play, as if I'm just toying with Sherlock to see him dance. As if I don't have a purpose. And sometimes I _know_ I don't have a purpose. And it causes me to pause.

I play for the sake of the game.

I play because it's the only way to feel alive.

I play for Sherlock.

I play for me.

And I play for London.

Two players, playing for the same thing. One, black, wants London for himself. And the other, white, wants London for the sake of London. One can win, the other _has _to lose. It cannot be me. I cannot afford to lose to Sherlock Holmes.

My phone dings just as I push out the door into the night air. The smelly, polluted night air of London. It's a beautiful sight, but I've grown weary of it. I pull my phone out and take a look at the new message.

_Close_

_SM_

Ah. Good. This game is just about to get interesting. I waltz down the fire escape as a car pulls into the garage, coming to a stop.

"Thank you ever so much Seb. I owe you for this." I say into the window, knowing he can hear me, before opening the back door and peering in to see my prize. Another smile creeps across my face. One of satisfaction. "Oh Sebastian, you are good." I praise before pulling the unconscious Doctor John Watson from the back of the car. I smile again.

I win this round. Sherlock Holmes.

John is starting to struggle and I nod toward the car. Sebastian knows exactly what to do. The car pulls out of the garage and disappears around the corner. I drag John unceremoniously toward the prearrange chair and toss him into it, stripping away the piece of duct tape that binds his mouth. John wakes with a start.

Let the games begin.

John looks up at me with a confused face, and immediately backs up after seeing it's me. I smile.

"Oh good, you're awake. I thought Sebastian had killed you for a moment." I lie, running a thumb over John's cheek. Let him think he was in danger.

"What the hell Jim?" He asks, trying to slap at my hand. He can hardly do anything.

"I'd let you just walk out of here, but you can barely move, so I wouldn't try it. You wouldn't get far." He glances down at his bound wrists and ankles.

"What do you want Jim?" He asks angrily, after assessing the situation.

"To play. Sherlock's been a bit slower than usual. And normally, I wouldn't mind that because I did tell him to back off, but when I dangle a piece of meat in front of his face, and he refuses to take it, well then we have a problem Doctor Watson." He says nothing. "Tch." He glances at me before looking over my shoulder, as if expecting to see Sherlock to come and save him. "Oh, Sherlock will never find you. He probably won't even know that you're missing for a while yet."

"That fast Jim?"

"Oh hi Dave!" I exclaim, turning to see Dave walk into the garage, black hair falling into his face. He looks murderous.

"That fast Mr. Moriarty? You were that fast. I don't believe you." I laugh aloud for a second before turning to John,

"Sorry John, unfinished business with Dave. Do excuse me." I run my fingers over his cheek as he pulls away again before facing Dave.

"How were you that fast?" He demands, throwing his phone at me. I suppose it was probably supposed to hit me, like a projectile, but I simply snatched it out of the air and gazed at the message.

_Dave Sanders,_

_Your family has been found dead._

"Tch."

"That's all you have to say?"

"All I have to say Dave, is that you shouldn't have gotten in my way."

"_Your _way?"

"My way Dave. My way. I'm just trying to prove a point here Dave. No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will." Dave stares at me.

"How did you-"

"I make it a point," I pause before saying his name, "_Dave_, to find out everything I can about a person before I make them mine. And I found out everything Dave." I start to walk towards him, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Dave." He looks livid, and frightened at the same time. I touch his small nose with one finger and smile. "You've done it now Dave."

"But-"

"Ah ah ah! Dave." He swallows and backs out the door. He does a lot of that. Backing. I can tell he's expecting mercy again. I reach out and shove him, pushing him onto the pavement. He screams and crawls along backwards. I continue. A plan, yes. I always have one.

"P-Pl-PLEASE!" I continue at my same speed, and he stands up, running backwards now, I smile. Dangerously. He knows he's got a problem when he sees my face and has the audacity to glance over his shoulder.

"Yes, Dave. I believe the words are, 'You're fired' but that's just so… mundane. A different kind of termination. I believe you'll find that there are tiny weights in nearly all of your pockets, sewn in over a period of five month, to the point you didn't notice them. And that's the Thames behind you."

"Mr. Moriarty!"

"Ah. No, Dave. You were calling me Jim earlier. Be consistent or I might get confused." I reach out and push him into the Thames before smiling as he tries to swim. Weights. Nearly undetectable when wearing, but they are worth their weight in water and drag you down until you drown. Child's play. Mentally I turn the pawn I used for him white and then sink it. I turn on my heel and head back to John. "Now John. Where were we? Ah yes," I say, looking him in the eyes, "I was about to explain my plan to you. Although, You probably don't want to hear it." I reach into his pocket and pull out his phone, swiftly calling Sherlock's number. It rings twice.

"John, why are you-"

"John? Eh, no."

"Jim-"

"Shut up and listen Sherlock. It's time to do things my way."

"Your way-"

"Stop trying to sound smart. You found the evidence I presume."

"Yes."

"Good. Now listen…"

_RIGHT THEN! Hey everyone! Thank you for all the reviews, and everything you guys are STARS! Anyway, good luck on this one. I say that for you because I have once again dug myself a hole and am as of yet, unaware on how to proceed. I do know that I want Jim to win… So that bit is the easy bit. Coming up with a convincing story line that isn't confused and strange is another story. But I shall try to put something up with this tomorrow. I think I want it all from Jim's perspective so that will be new for me. I like Jim. I like him a lot. And the whole art idea came from a conversation where Jim and John were talking (I was Jim, and a wonderful internet RPer was John, on facebook) and Jim had to defend his position. It was very entertaining, and was great, so if I can find the conversation, I'll put it in my next chapter for this, because it was GOOD._

_ANYWAY, thanks for putting up with me!_

_Until Gallifrey is free,_

Time Lord Victorious


	5. Chess Part 2

_Jim_

"Good morning Doctor Watson. Feeling well I presume?" I ask with a false smile. John looks up and glares at me.

"What the hell Jim? Don't you think it's a bit… Much?" I chuckle softly,

"When you reach my position, anything less than extraordinary becomes too subtle." He scoffs. "Don't believe me? Hm." He rotates his neck and I smile. Oh, I'm having too much fun with this. "Oh I see."

"What?" He asks angrily.

"You're cross with me." I laugh aloud this time, that's funny! "You know John, I'm not going to kill you."

"Oh?" He sounds like he doesn't believe me.

"No no no! That would just break poor Sherlock. No. I need you alive if I ever want to get to him."

"Get to him?" I smile.

"Of course. Don't you know how to play this game?" I ask, a hit of sarcasm in my voice that he doesn't catch.

"It's not a game Moriarty, it's cold hearted murder."

"Tch." I pause for a minute to think about what I'm going to say and lower my voice accordingly. I put my face right next to his ear so he can hear me. "It's art, Doctor Watson. What I do is art. In their dying moments, people tell you who they really are. They show you. It takes skill to pull that out of them. It's art, John, and don't you _ever,_" I stress the word, "forget it." I step back to look at him, and shove my hands in my pockets. "Don't make people into hero's Doctor Watson. Hero's don't exist. In their core, every human being will do _anything_ to stay alive. To not die. I just bring it out. I expose it."

"ART? All you do is waste lives!" He's angry now, and I tsk again.

"Tch. Doctor Watson, I want you to pay close attention to me."

"You make people _DIE_ Mr. Moriarty!"

"Die? That's what people _DO_! Weren't you listening John?" I straighten my coat and face him again, "I just withdraw the chance for them to rise to their full potential. People would perceive me as being," I do air quotes, "evil, but if you look at it differently, that's not the case at all. I consider myself a saving grace. And you have to admit, the art, is simply…. Stunning." John freezes, looking at me coldly.

"Saving grace? Are you trying to be funny?" I offer a half smile before pacing again, 'round and 'round the chair I go.

"Hardly. If I were trying to be funny, you'd be laughing. I'm merely defending my position. Shall I attack your career choice. Doctor?" I ask, a bit of spite in my voice.

"Wha-"

"Doctoring them. Making them better? Is that what you think it is John? Death is a sweet release! And you pull them back, right before they manage to taste the sweetness of whatever comes after your heart stops beating. Isn't that cruel? Isn't what I do kinder? Don't try to act all high and mighty to me John Watson." I sniff, the coolness of the morning getting to me at last.

"You're crazy."

"I have been told that, but I've learned that in order to go _anywhere_ in this world, you have to be at least somewhat mad."

"It's not kinder." I look up and stop walking to look at the back of his head. Interesting.

"It isn't? And pulling them back from death is?"

"Most people don't want to die Mr. Moriarty." I smile and laugh softly. I see. Things just got interesting.

"From my experience, no one ever knows until they are approached with it, until they do die Doctor Watson, and then they realize they have always wanted to die." The sun just barely starts to peak over the horizon of the city, turning the clouds shades of pink and orange. My breath hangs in the air as I continue to circle him. "I have heard people _beg _me for death. Angel of Mercy."

"Mercy!" He scoffs. "Is that what you call it Jim?" I stop in front of him and look him in the eye, a smile spreading across my face,

"You called me Jim."

"Whatever the hell it is, it sure isn't mercy." I shrug, continuing to pace.

"That's debatable. Better to live in the light, rather than in ignorance. Wouldn't you say?"

"There's a saying, 'Ignorance is bliss.'" He quotes and I smile again. So predictable. You, Doctor Watson, are playing right into my hands. I just _knew _you would say that.

"At least until that ignorance is shattered, leaving a broken human being behind. You are all so fragile! You know this John, you work with them every day. The broken, the sick, the ailing, the dying." He glares at me and looks as if he's going to say something more, but the beeping of his phone in my pocket stops him. I smile and bend down to look him properly in the face. "I'd better be off, I've got Sherlock to finally come out and play, I'd better be prepared. In this game, one cannot afford to be caught off guard!" I tap him on the nose, much to his surprise and instant dislike. I smile before turning on my heel and leaving through the open door with a flourish. I slam the two doors together and head into the main part of the building before checking John's phone.

_Found: a small wooden spoon used for the murder of one, Elridge Turner._

_SH_

I smile. Good. He's getting the hang of it.

_Good boy. Now be a doll and clear up another mess for me._

I don't bother to sign the note. He knows it's me. I smile and whistle a tune as I place the phone back in my pocket. Luckily for me, Sherlock removes all tracking devices for both his, and John's portable devices. You'd think he'd at least leave the ones for the cell phones in, but I suppose he doesn't want Mycroft snooping, considering he's the one that put them there. Sherlock's frantic by now. I push the door to my study open and move another piece on the chess board.

Let the games begin.

And of course Sherlock has to play, he has no other options. I cannot afford to lose another piece in this game. I've worked far too hard for this. I need to win. Years of being shot down, forgotten, beaten, and I am not about to lose again. I touch my chest for a moment, sentiment mostly, feeling for the scars hidden by my t-shirt. Too much. I smile slightly before gazing at the board again. Game of chess. I'll be sure to win.

Reward.

Punishment.

Reward.

Punishment.

How to train your favorite pet. I smile again before leaving the study and calling for Sebastian on _my_ phone. Change in plans again. Unpredictable, changeable. No one ever expects the unexpected. Even if they say they do.

"I do hope you aren't afraid of heights Doctor Watson." I call cheerily before I actually enter the garage. He looks up from his chair and scowls.

"Come to make art out of me have you? Come to shatter my ignorance."

"Tch." I shake my head pleasantly, "When are you going to learn to let things go?" I ask before turning on my heel. "Seb will be in to knock you out presently, I've got some other things to attend to before we continue with our game." He looks at me loathingly, "Our little game of chess is just about to get interesting." I flash him a pleasant smile before taking my leave and strolling down the street.

It looks like it might rain.

I might need my umbrella.

I shove my hands in my jean's pockets and turn the corner, pulling out John's phone while I'm at it. Time to change it up a bit Sherlock. Hope you like surprises. Hell, who am I kidding, he doesn't like surprises, but that won't stop me from playing dirty.

_I'm soooo changeable._

_Sorry dear. _

_You have four hours to find him Sherlock,_

_Or he'll probably end up little more than a smudge on the pavement._

_;)_

I couldn't resist the emoticon. Let him think what he likes. When you reach my position, you hide behind an innumerable amount of masks. Mask after mask after mask veils your true face. No one ever gets to _me_ and no one ever will. Sebastian's car drives right past me, slowing down as a signal and then speeding away to find a suitable building. He'd text me when John's in position and I'll hurry on up to meet Sherlock and if he takes too long, I'll be the one to push the Doctor over the edge. Shoving John's phone back in my pocket I step up to the curb to hail a cab. Usually Sebastian would just drive me everywhere, but not today. Today, I'm a civilian. I dress like a normal person, I act like a normal person, I even smell like a normal person. Everyday it's something different. Today, I'm Jim. My phone buzzes and I tell the cabby the address, smile and sit back, waiting to arrive.

I climb the stairs.

Elevators give me a chance of being seen more than I want to be. People don't take the stairs. I throw open the door and a cold breeze blows through me. I'm a ghost. Until John sees me. His chair is missing and he dangles his legs over the edge of the building.

A cold rain begins to fall.

The first drop touches my nose and I look up, scowling at the rain.

John grips the edge of the building with his fingers, his knuckles are white, and he looks uncomfortable.

"Tch." I sit down next to him, the backs of my feet hitting against the side of the building. I don't say anything, I just look at John. And he looks at me. He looks mad, like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. I check the clock. Three and a half hours to go. Sighing I lay back, laying on the top of the building with my legs hanging over the edge. Never mind how open I am right now. John could just push me off and be done with it. But he doesn't. Why?

"He's not a cold blooded killer. Like me." John looks at me confused.

"What?" I look up. Had I said that out loud?

"Why are you up here Jim?" To that, I smile.

"In case Sherlock doesn't come." His face hardens and he refuses to look at me. Good. I put my hands behind my head and let the rain pepper my face. Oddly enough, it feels good.

"Sherlock came." The voice comes from behind us and I tilt my head to see Sherlock standing at the door. I reposition myself and continue to look at the angry clouds.

"Thought you might. How did you know it was this building?" I ask, curious. He doesn't say anything. Idiot. "I have your pet." I say loudly.

"He's not my pet Jim." I smile and sit up, one fluid motion mind, and swivel to look at him. I cross my legs and study him. He looks angry. Well of course he's angry.

"Hi." I say, offering a small wave. "Glad you could join us. This rain, is just… Splendid!" Sherlock frowns and steps forward. I don't move. This is a game of chess, I just have to wait for the right moment. He's testing me. I'm testing him. Casually I glance over my shoulder, seeing all the tiny cars, the small buildings and the ants running around the streets of London. Not my home. I smirk as Sherlock hauls John back from the edge.

"What are you playing at Jim?" he asks, studying me as he unties John's hands and ankles.

I just shake my head. "You wouldn't understand Sherlock." No one ever does. I stand up and Sherlock backs up, pulling John to his feet. I brush past them, grinning like a mad man, and head for the door. I pull it open and start to step inside before turning back and looking at them, "Check mate." I murmur before escaping down the stairs. I grin as I hear the door bang shut and hurried voices as Sherlock and John come up with a way to stop me. I practically slide down the stairs. I was _made _for this. Consulting criminal. I slide into Sebastian's car. "Thank you Sebastian. I can always count on you." I say with a smile, mentally moving my queen into check. When are you going to betray me to Sebastian Moran? If I've ever learned something, it's that everyone will betray you.

And in this game, I can afford no chances.

None at all.

I win this round, Sherlock Holmes.

_Right, that's it from Jim for the time being. I had a lot of fun, because Jim is one of my absolute favorites. If Moffat and Gatiss do the unthinkable, I will beat the shit out of them. They will be no more. Thanks for everything everyone. Don't forget to review, and FYI most of the conversation between John and Jim was the conversation my new friend and I had as John and Jim on facebook. I did get her permission, so…. It was changed and shortened considerably, mainly so it would fit better here, and so that it wouldn't be nearly two thousand words with just dialogue._

_Anyway, don't forget to review and be on the lookout for more! _

_Until Gallifrey is free,_

Time Lord Victorious


	6. Fault

_John_

I wake up to someone screaming. It only takes a moment to realize that it's myself and to shut my hoarse voice off. I glance at the alarm clock, one in the morning. I sigh heavily before throwing off my blanket and pressing the bottoms of my feet to the bottom of the ground. I doubt the dreams will ever leave. The floor is freezing and I shiver as I make my way to the bedroom door. The door creaks slightly as I force it open and I nearly trip down the stairs, catching myself on the rail.

"Shit." I mutter sleepily. Water isn't worth it. I should just turn around and go back upstairs. I nod to myself and turn around to go back. A noise. What was that? Sleep ebbs away and I am suddenly on red alert. I whirl around and push into the living room door, scanning the room for any unusual activity and anything that could potentially be a threat. The window, the doorway, the couch, the table. Nothing screams of inconsistency. Which is odd. My instincts are shouting that something is off. I glance toward Sherlock's closed door and start to make my way there as quietly as possible. "Sherlock?" I whisper as loud as I dare. The door opens and his slim figure slides out.

"John?" He asks. I nod.

"Did you-?"

"Yes." We cease our hushed tones, afraid that whoever is invading out sanctuary would hear. I motion to Sherlock to stay near the wall. I see nothing. I glance around again, making sure that Sherlock is in no immediate danger before racing up the stairs to grab my gun.

Holding it's familiar weight in my palm I grip the gun as I fly down the stairs again. I join Sherlock on the wall and scan the room, eyes darting to every corner. Where the hell is he? Frustrated now I glance around again.

"Where the hell-?" I murmur. The sense of danger is wearing off and I allow myself to relax against the wall. Sherlock shoots me a look and offers a small smile before crossing my path and entering his room again, the door closing softly with a click behind him. I let out a sigh and place the gun on the table as I get a drink, leaving it there when I start to go back up the stairs. Another noise. A shift. I start to turn, expecting to see something. Nothing. "Hmph." I mumble as I start to mount the stairs. That's when I can feel it. I can't see him, but I can feel him. And then I feel the small spot of pain suddenly pounding itself into my back. And I can't help but call out it hurts so much. "SHERLOCK!" I scream as I fall. Have to protect Sherlock. Have to prot….ect…Sh-

_Sherlock_

John's first shout roused me from my thoughts and instantaneously I'm out my door and down the hall to find him and help if I can. "SHERLOCK!" This draws my attention to the floor. "Run…." The words are quite and clearly forced. Shit. Instead of listening to him I kneel down next to my friend's face and try to assess the damage. Although clearly in pain and starting to fade, John manages a glare in my direction, and for some reason that causes me to smile. What am I thinking? He could be dying! I start to reach for my phone and John grips my hand, smearing blood on my robe. John closes his eyes and relaxes. Oh shit! I drop his hand and take his pulse. There, but faint. What the hell have I done? I've killed my best friend. I stand up and frantically reach for my phone, dialing 999 as fast as I can. The only thing I can do now is wait. Shit. What am I going to do? If he- No. Don't think of that. Calmly I stand and look at him. He's not moving, granted, but he still looks uncomfortable. He's fallen down the stairs after he got hit. I didn't even hear the shot, silencer then.

When they come to take him away I suddenly feel bad about leaving him in that awkward position. Sitting next to him in the back of the ambulance and staring at his relaxed makes me realize that I had known something was going to happen tonight, and I didn't stop him. And I was putting myself in danger as well. I grip his hand in an attempt to bring life back into his face. Nothing.

And I know.

This is my fault.

_John_

This is my fault. I knew…. And I still…. I wonder if Sherlock is okay. I wonder what he's doing now. My thoughts are jumbled and I don't understand most of them.

Am I dead?

I hope not. I don't think I'm ready to die yet.

If I were dead, would I be able to think like this?

And suddenly I'm questioning things I had known for years and I don't really know what to do about it. Everything is black, I notice after a while. I can't really move, and I can't see. Maybe I am dead. But then, maybe I would be able to move about. So maybe I'm not. I don't think I am. The pain is gone now. Interesting. Hospital then? Or maybe not, maybe on my way there. I'm not sure, but right now I don't really care. It just feels strange. A sort of tangled feeling.

_Sherlock_

At least he isn't dead. I chide myself for even thinking like that. Don't shoot blame. They said that he'd be okay and that he will probably wake up tomorrow. But that leaves the whole day for him to sleep and for him to think. And for Mycroft to stop by. The bastard. Always sticks his nose into everything.

I think I'm tired. Yeah, I can hardly keep my eyes open. I'm tired. I lean back in the hospital chair and close my eyes. Maybe just a small nap. He'll never know.

_Right. I was torn, and I'm still torn, and I don't want anything to do with this one anymore. I'm done writing it. I feel like it isn't going anywhere, and I'm just going to let it be. At least I wrote it._

_Until Gallifrey is free,_

Time Lord Victorious


	7. Texts from Baker Street

John, where are you?

SH

At the grocer Sherlock.

Why?

JW

No reason.

SH

-sigh-

JW

Did you really just-?

SH

Yes Sherlock.

I'm shopping.

Leave me be so I can finish.

JW

Can you get me something?

SH

What do you need?

If it's for an experiment…

JW

No experiment.

We need some milk.

SH

I and buying it now.

Relax Sherlock.

JW

Why?

Do you know where I am right now?

SH

I assume you're at the flat…

JW

NO!

SH

Then where are you?

JW

Mycroft…

SH

Mycroft has kidnapped you again.

And you're texting me about it?

You know there isn't anything I can do.

JW

He hasn't kidnapped me.

I'm on a case for him.

SH

And you didn't tell me why?

JW

You didn't need to know about it.

Sadly this is taking longer than I originally thought.

And I probably won't be home until later.

SH

Okay.

What do you want for dinner?

I can get takeaway.

JW

Nothing.

SH

Sherlock.

JW

John.

SH

I'm getting you something.

JW

I'm not going to eat it.

Don't bother.

It's just a waste of money.

SH

Fine.

But I'm not cleaning it up when it gets moldy.

JW

Then it's not going to get cleaned up.

SH

I'm on my way home now.

You're impossible.

You could at least try.

JW

Trying is dull.

SH

Fine. I'll see you at the flat.

JW

Oh I see.

SH

What?

JW

I've made you cross.

SH

No.

JW

Then what?

SH

See you tonight Sherlock.

JW

Could you stop by Bart's?

Molly has something on hold for me.

SH

Whatever.

JW

Thank you.

SH

Did you seriously request 'a nice pair of fresh human eyes'?

JW

Of course!

SH

'Specifically brown'?

JW

YES!

Why are you so surprised?

SH

That's just…

Wrong Sherlock.

Where do you want me to put them?

JW

In the microwave, next to my other jar of eyes.

SH

I was going to use that…

JW

Oh.

Sorry.

SH

No you aren't.

JW

Don't move my jars.

SH

I won't.

JW

Thank you John.

I should be home in a few hours.

SH

I know.

I'll see you then.

JW

_Yeah, another text message only story. I'm not sure this has any potential because there isn't really a point and it doesn't really do anything but make you read it. So, enjoy. I was going to do something else, but got distracted, and then I didn't know how to start and… Well let's just say things got complicated._

_Until Gallifrey is free,_

Time Lord Victorious


	8. Muted Silence

Sherlock sits, staring out the window, watching the countryside pull away. John is seated beside him, chin propped on his fist , staring straight ahead. No words pass between the two, but the bustle of the other passengers and the train make up for what would be an awkward silence. Each are lost in their own thoughts.

Sherlock is currently contemplating how fast the train could go before someone would die if they jumped of.

John is curious about the couple sitting in front of them, wondering if they could shut up for one minute, or if it was too much trouble.

Neither say anything, or have said anything since they got on the train earlier that morning, accompanied by Mycroft telling them, "You'll be fine. Relax and enjoy the ride, and when you get there, text me so I can send you the next bit of information you'll need." John lets out an exasperated sigh and switches fists. Boredom was something, that up until this point, had been nearly nonexistent. John Watson was never bored while living with Sherlock Holmes. Always a case, always an oddity that would keep him up all night, it was always something. Until now. Now he is faced with a depressing sort of blanket of boredom that he can't remember ever having faced in his entire life.

And it stung. A stinging kind of boredom.

Sherlock presses his head against the cool glass and closes his eyes. Most of the time he's bored. Most of the time he's this bored. He supposes that he should gain some sense of satisfaction that he isn't just bored by himself. He's dragged John along to be bored with him.

Not that they had much of a choice of course. Mycroft works for the government. Mycroft _is_ the government, and what Mycroft says, goes. And Mycroft said that John goes with Sherlock. So John went. And with that said, Sherlock finds himself on a train with the most boring people on it, with nothing to do. Except to talk to John. Conversation had fizzled out hours ago, and it had gone something like this,

"_So this is exciting!"_

"_Yeah, I suppose so."_

"_What do you think this is all about?" John had asked minutes later, finally sobering up and getting serious._

"_I don't really know anything except for the fact that I don't want to be here presently." John had nodded and replied with a question,_

"_So why are we here anyway?"_

"_Because," Sherlock said quickly, "Mycroft said to be. And what Mycroft says has to happen, it has to happen. Because Mycroft is the government, and Mycroft thinks he can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants to do it with. Because-" John cuts him off,_

"_Mycroft is a ponce. I've heard this speech before Sherlock. I know how it ends." Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and glared at the window watching the greenery flash by. John looked as if he were about to say something, but he chose not to instead._

And from those first few minutes on, nothing had passed between them that could be called conversation. Normally John probably would have minded, but today he was woken up in the early hours of the morning, told to pack clothes for a month, skipping breakfast, ditching Sarah, and getting a train without his consent. John was not in a good mood.

And Sherlock knew it.

Normally Sherlock wouldn't have cared if there was a silence or not, but the presence of one made him realize that John is not in a good mood, and probably shouldn't be bothered. Even though the only way for John to come of such a grim mood would be to talk about it. So Sherlock just shifts in his seat and stares out the window.

And John just stares straight ahead.

Not really seeing anything.

Sherlock knows he should probably say something and has spent the last hour thinking of things he could say. Finally, he feels he has two words (well one word and a contraction) he can say. He glances at John before turning from the window to face him.

"I'm sorry." He says. He knows that John is probably feeling hurt at the moment but will never say it because that's how John is. John looks up at him and his face softens.

"What?" He asks. Sherlock looks down.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" John is confused. He doesn't know why Sherlock is apologizing, and he feels like he should know why.

"For dragging you out here with me. That's why you're upset isn't it?" Sherlock turns back to the window and is content to pretend like he didn't just apologize to John Watson.

"It's not your fault Sherlock." John says with a smile, "But thank you." There is a silence again while John thinks over what Sherlock said. "And I'm not upset." That brings a small smile to Sherlock's lips.

"Yes you are. Even if you want to deny it, you are." John shakes his head, smiling.

"You can always tell can't you?"

"Of course I can."

"Does it ever bother you that you can tell?" Sherlock turns to look at John again. Curious question. No one has ever asked Sherlock a question like that before.

"What do you mean?" He asks instead of giving him a straight answer. John sits up straight and rubs his nose.

"I mean, does it ever bother you that as soon as you look at someone you know everything about them? Do you ever want to be normal?" He stops having thought of a better way to ask his question, "Don't you ever wish that you could simply turn off being able to deduce everything?" Sherlock looks at John with a face of admiration. No one had ever really thought about how he felt before, and here was an Army Doctor asking him how he felt.

"No." The simplest answer but he figures he owes John more of an explanation. "Everyone in the world is 'normal' John. It's just too boring to be anything but extraordinary. If I didn't have my deductions, I would just be a 'normal' person. Abnormally smart, but normal." John smiles at that.

"You're a very interesting person Sherlock. If I didn't know better I would say you were mad."

"The reason you can't say that John, is because you're mad too. All the most interesting people are."

_HEY EVERYONE!_

_Right, so this was experimental. I sat down, and starting writing. _

_And I think it turned out okay._

_But here is the bad news. Maybe. For you. For me it's good news. I'm probably going to be starting another little set of drabbles based solely on Jim. For me this is good because I have my head simply teeming with ideas that I could use with Jim. The bad news here is that I might not be updating this section of divers characters as much as I would like because I usually only have enough time to do one little ficlet a day. So that's the bad news. _

_Anyway! Don't forget to review, and tell me what you think! Enjoy yourself! _

_Until Gallifrey is free,_

Time Lord Victorious


	9. First Encounter

Molly leans against the door, a scowl on her face. What the hell just happened? Sherlock texted her about an order, and as soon as she acquired the toes he texted her that he didn't need them. If her boss finds out… She prefers not to think about it. What could be so important that getting her fired was not an issue? A million different scenarios rush into her head at the thought and she bites her lip. There is a knock on the door and Molly backs up while it opens. Enters, a man she does not know, but oddly, he looks familiar.

"Do- Do I know you?" She asks, knowing that the answer is a blunt,

"No." The man is tall, with a curved nose and dark hair. He wears a suit and swings an umbrella at his side. "But you know my brother."

"Is-," Molly pauses, "Is Sherlock your brother?" The man smiles.

"How did you know?" Molly smiles,

"Sherlock's in here all the time, you'd think that his nose is pretty familiar." The man's grin widens,

"I'm Mycroft." He sticks his hand out and Molly shakes it.

"Molly."

"I know. Sherlock told me that you would probably be upset that he wanted you to trash the order he put in." Molly doesn't say anything and Mycroft continues, "And considering that the reason he has to leave them here is my fault, I decided that I should come in person and apologize."

"Oh." Molly doesn't say anything else.

"So, I'm sorry that Sherlock has probably gotten you into trouble and if there is anything I can do…" Molly looks up,

"Take them."

"What?" Mycroft looks horrified as Molly thrusts a paper bag into his arms,

"Take the toes so that I don't get into trouble. Those will start to smell soon, so you might want to refrigerate them soon." Mycroft blinks and grasps the bag.

"But-!"

"NO! If you don't take them, I'll be fired! I'm not supposed to…" Her voice trails off, "Only for Sherlock okay? I don't…. Steal from dead people unless he needs me to. I could get into so much trouble. And then what use would I be?" Mycroft doesn't say anything but nods to show his understanding,

"I'll need to get these…" He says after several minutes. "I'll just… Go then." He turns and walks out the door, swinging his umbrella behind him the entire time.

"Wait! Mycroft! Wait!" Mycroft turns, "It's okay. Tell him I said it's fine." Mycroft nods and leaves St. Barts, the doors swinging shut behind him.

_Shoot me because not only is this short, it's ill thought out and boring. Thanks for reading it anyway though. Things have been slower for some reason. Not entirely sure why, but I don't be able to write all next week because I'll be camping (oh joy) and won't have ANYTHING. So don't forget to review and stick with me! _

_Until Gallifrey is free, I am yours,_

Time Lord Victorious


	10. Maybe

_Mycroft Age: 19_

I gaze out over the edge of the cliff, feeling the cool breeze toss my hair about. A vacation. A good one, a planned one and mummy made me promise to bring Sherlock along. To which I obliged. Poor kid. I stick my hands in my pockets and let out a sigh. I haven't seen him since we've been here. We got out of the car and he disappeared.

I think he might hate me.

Sadly, it bothers me that he would hate me so much. I didn't do anything except leave. And yet, he hates me so completely it's nearly corporeal. I was unaware that anyone could hate so much.

But.

A thought I would have preferred to stay buried drifts across my brain. Maybe it's not me he hates. Maybe he just hates mummy for what she did to him. Us. I shake my head in confusion. I will never understand him. Sherlock is too complex. I watch the water lap against the rocks below and wonder what it would be like to fall.

Not that I would fall on purpose. Not that I'd actually want to fall. Obviously. But just, what would it feel like? Would I be scared? Would it hurt? How and where would it hurt? I'm not curious enough to find out so I just look down and wonder about it. I cock my head to the side, trying to imagine the sensation of falling and landing on the rocks. I close my eyes and can feel myself falling, I can feel the rocks digging into my back, breaking my bones. I can almost smell my blood swirling away in the churning water and see Sherlock peering over the edge, a startled expression on his face as he watches his brother die, hundreds of feet below him, unable to do anything.

I blink to wash the morbid image away and turn toward the house. I open my mouth to call for Sherlock, only to have the words shoved down my throat as my body is pushed over the edge. With the sudden drop my arms fly up and grip the edge of the cliff. I cry out as the weight of my body is distributed to my shoulders. I didn't see my attacker.

What the hell just happened?

I pull up to try and get back on solid ground as my feet kick against the side of the cliff. If I let go now… I'm dead.

"SHERLOCK!" I scream at the top of my lungs. "SHERLOCK!" I faintly hear the door open and Sherlock's face suddenly appears over the cliff.

"Mycroft? What the hell? Is this a joke?"

The side of the cliff, the sharp rocks bite into my skin.

"For Christ's sake Sherlock! Pull me up!" He frowns.

"How did you…." He asks, the question trailing off.

"I don't know. Someone pushed me." I reply impatiently. I can't feel my fingers. All the blood in my arms is leaving and my shoulders hurt, my arms are being pulled and my palms are bleeding. "Just pull me up! I can't feel my fingers!" His frown deepens. He reaches out to grab my arms. He's shaking. What the hell? "Sherlock? What's wrong!" I ask as he pulls his arms back. "What's the matter?" Shit. I'm going to die, I'm going to fall off this cliff and die. What a coincidence that I was thinking about it before it happened. Shit.

"If I touch you, you'll fall!" He exclaims, fear causing his voice to crack. He's scared. He's too scared to do anything. Shit.

"Sherlock!" I say his name loudly so he can hear me. "I won't fall. I promise!" His cheeks glisten. Christ. He's crying.

"You can't be sure! You've already left me once! I can't- Mycroft!" Normally this would be touching, but I can't have this right now. Or I'll die.

"Sherlock." Stern now, "You have to pull me up. _Now._ I can't feel my bleeding fingers and if this continues, I'll have to let go. Can you pull me up now?" Sherlock doesn't say anything and appears to be thinking. Then he stands up and turns to walk back toward the house. "WHAT THE HELL SHERLOCK?" The fear sinks in. He's going to let me die. My fingers slip and I try to hold on harder. Within seconds my right hand falls away and I haven't the strength to pull it back up. "Shit." I murmur. A rope is tossed over the side and Sherlock's face appears over the edge again.

"Grab the rope." He commands. I shake my head.

"I can't Sherlock."

"Damn." I open my mouth to reprimand him. Mummy doesn't like it when he swears. "Hold on Mycroft. I'm coming." He mounts the rope and starts over the edge. When he reaches me he wraps my arm around his shoulders. "Hang on." He says and tugs me over. My other hand slips off and as I'm about to fall, Sherlock catches me. Putting both of my arms around his neck he starts to climb. "Mycroft." He says, stopping. "You have to move your legs." I nod and bury my head into his neck while he climbs. Assisting him as best I can.

"Thank you." I whisper. "I thought you were going to leave me." He doesn't say anything when we reach the top and simply tells me to get off of him. I roll onto the cold grass and lay staring up at the sky. He sits down next to me. We're silent. No words need to be spoken.

"Mycroft?"

"Hm?"

"I could never leave you." I prop myself up on my elbows and look at him.

"What?"

"I couldn't leave you on that cliff. I couldn't."

"What are you saying?" He glances at me.

"I don't hate you Mycroft. I hate what you did. Grounds enough to let you hang a little longer I think. But I couldn't leave you there to die like you left me. I'm better than that." I purse my lips.

"I didn't leave you to die." Sherlock shakes his head and stares in front of him.

"Yes you did. And you know it." Thinking back I did know when I was leaving that I was abandoning my brother to a fate that should have been mine, and I still left him. I left him with that bastard father, and a coward mother, and I left him alone, and by himself. The light dawns on me, he's a better man than I'll ever be.

"I'm sorry." I breathe, hoping he'll hear me, but dreading if he does. He doesn't say anything, but nods instead. 'I know,' it seems to say, 'I know that you're sorry, but I can never forgive you,". He'll hate me for the rest of his life, but it's okay, because he doesn't hate _me_ he hates what I do. Maybe one day he'll go out and meet someone worse than I, someone who actually does terrible things, and then maybe he'll come around. Maybe he'll give me the chance to save him.

Maybe.

* * *

><p><em>I HAVE RETURNED FROM THE DEAD! I am back, there will still be gaps between everything because of my Jim project titled, 'Thought You Might Call' and I want to start another thing, but probably won't for a while. Well, two other things really. Anyway, don't forget to review, and I love all of you!<em>

_Until Gallifrey is free, I am yours,_

_Time Lord Victorious _


	11. Change in Pace

Sebastian

The first thing I get is from an unknown number.

I need you.

-JM

Well that's simple enough. Obviously the boss wants me. Needs me even. I smile and reposition myself on the couch before quickly typing a reply.

Listening.

-S

I stand up and start to make ready, selecting a bag. The job hasn't been stated yet, but he usually has me use my favourites. Kind of him.

It'll be a bit dirty.

-JM

Thanks for the warning.

-S

I exit the front door, locking it behind myself. I toss my bag into the passenger seat. I wonder if he'll come this time. He likes to do that. My phone dings as I receive the details of the job and I smile. Easy.

That's insulting.

-S

Might as well tell him how insulted I feel. I toss my phone into the passenger seat and pull out of the driveway to make my way to the location. Anticipation eats at my chest.

What?

-JM

I wait until I reach the building across from the target's location before texting him back.

You said 1 hour.

You also said good luck.

-S

I make my way into the building and I set up. I wonder if he'll show up this time. Sometimes he likes to come watch me.

Jim.

I stare at the last received message and smile. He's trying to best his own time again. He probably expects me to show up…. Maybe… I swivel around in my chair with a sigh. I am ever so bored…. Sherlock isn't taking my game and I've got nothing better to do. I jump out of my chair and fix my hair before getting my jacket from the back of the chair and sliding down the stairs. I don't bother to lock the door behind me. It's not like I'll be gone for very long. I just want to watch. I call a cab, not bothered enough to drive myself, even if driving myself is cheaper. I can afford it. I give the cabbie an address about a block away from the building Sebastian is probably crouching in. He's got a few minutes, I'm late, as per usual, and he's probably not even worried. I smirk to myself as I mount the stairs quietly, pulling my jacket shut and buttoning one button. I lean against the doorway and observe.

It was an office building at one point, long since abandoned. That's why it's such a perfect spot. Prime even. The scene is brilliant, and I can't help but feel a little prideful. Did set it up of course. I always set it up. I'm an artist you see. I'm very good. The nearly empty room, occupied by a lone sniper, who is staring simply and accurately down his sights. Perfection. I'd take a picture but the sad truth is that it could be used as blackmail and evidence should it ever be found. I don't make a sound, I just watch, cocking my head to the side.

"Took your time sir." He says, not turning around. I smile. Ah yes. He noticed. Of course he did. "Although, you always take your time with these things don't you." I smile and enter the room.

"Have him?" I ask, standing beside him and looking out the window toward the opposite building.

"Almost." I can hear his heart beat from here. He swallows hard before putting a finger over the trigger. he looks as if he's about to take the shot but lets out a sigh and sets the gun down instead. "Do you think that you could, back up a bit. You're in the way." Oh that's right. I was practically breathing down his neck. The goosebumps on his exposed skin are evidence of that. I smile.

"Of course." Taking a step backward I watch more closely. He raises the weapon and quickly aims, lining the cross-hairs with the target. A quick pull of the trigger, and the catch of the silencer make only the sound of a whisper. Seconds later, glass shatters and screams fill the air. I grin. "Well done." I step toward the window and survey the commotion. Chaos. Perfect. It would be more perfect if things where a little bit more... Entertaining. Sebastian stands up and joins me at the window, grin on face, and gun in hand. The open window tosses his hair with the wind.

"Perfect shot. Did you see that?" He asks, like a child.

"New record. Good job." He smiles and claps me on the back. I glance down at the scene again.

"We should go." I say, gesturing to the pointing fingers of frantic men and women, the coagulation of cop cars and spectators. He nods curtly and quickly packs away his things into a smaller bag and exits †he room, expecting me to follow. I linger at the window a moment. Good god that feeling of success is intoxicating. He pauses at the door when he realizes I'm not following.

"Sir? I prick my ears up but don't turn around. I want to see the blood. From this high up it's nearly impossible to make out the different bodies, but the large circle around a fallen man is pretty easy to spot.

But no blood.

"What?" I ask after a few minutes.

"We need to go." I shake my head. No. Not finished. Never finished until I'm sure. Not sure. The ambulance seems to be having trouble. I narrow my eyes. Dead? "Sir." He's not asking. Which is why I like him. I like having a henchman that will actually think for himself, one that doesn't need to be told everything. Seb could always think for himself and this is one of those instances that makes me glad to have him.

Sure. I'm always glad to have him. He's the only friend I've got, he's the only person to listen to me, he's the only one I share things with.

Hell. He's the only one that knows anything about my insides at all.

"I can't be sure yet. And don't call me sir." Maybe it came out a bit harsh. But I didn't mean it to. I've been telling him, it doesn't feel right for him to call me 'sir' and I to call him 'Seb'. I feel that him calling me 'sir' is breaking that bond of friendship I like to feel with him.

"Si- Jim?" He stopped himself. It's nice to know he's trying. He's standing behind me again.

"How do I know he's dead?" He puts his hand on the small of my back and leans over my shoulder for a view. He licks his lips before speaking.

"You know, because I'm the best sniper you've got." I smile at that. Ah. There it is. The blood. The building is surrounded and I frown.

"One of these days, making sure is going to cost me." I murmur, more to myself than him. He laughs at that and tosses his bag out the window and onto the ledge. He crawls out and holds his hands out to help me through the glass. He doesn't say anything until I'm outside, on the ground, and straightening my jacket.

"It already has." He says with a smile, and leans over the edge. "Any bright ideas?" I grin.

"Oh you know me." He chuckles. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeves." Without a thought, or even a second glance, I boost myself over the edge.

"Jim! The hell-!" He reaches out quickly, dropping his bag of toys and tricks to try and stop me. I simply laugh and let go before he can reach me.

Landing safely on the fire escape.

He looks quite stupid from this angle. Arms outstretched, pained look on his face, and a protest on his lips. He frowns. "What the-?"

"Fire escape." I explain with a smirk and he glares.

"Had me worried there." I nod my head. Predictable. In response to my near fatal jump, Seb throws his bag at me. He hoists it over his head, aims, and tosses it as hard as he can. It sails through the air and hits me. I stumble. And he laughs.

That hurt.

But I smile all the same.

He pops over the edge and joins me, pulling the bag from my arms and leaving the fire escape clear.

"I parked my car in the alley way." He says, with a bit of pride. I smile.

"You're learning. Thinking ahead. Smart." He chuckles.

"Says the genius." He unlocks his car and holds the door for me. I smile.

"What are you doing?" I realize that might be a bit vague and tack a shorter sentence to the end of it, "Tonight?" He looks at me oddly and shuts the door.

"I'm free."

"Good."

"Why?" He's confused. Awe, that is so cute. It's so cute that he's confused.

This is why I'm in charge.

I plan the things, I say what I mean, and I'm ready for it.

"Don't just simply stand there looking like a buffoon." I open the door for myself and slide inside, buckling my seat belt. The look of bewilderment on his face is seriously priceless. I smile internally to myself as he gets in. He starts the car.

"Is something funny?" He asks a bit roughly. I nod, but shake my head halfway through when it looks like he's going to smack me.

"I did say it would be dirty right?"

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Something I promised not to do in a while, so sorry, but I wanted to explore Sebastian and Jim's relationship. Thought it turned out okay. <em>

_Also going into 'Thought You Might Call'._

_Thinking about expanding this. Will expand on other account. Message me for details, might be a while. Busy. Sorry for those that read 'Thought You Might Call'. Working on a set of two fics that go together, but are separate one for here and one for the other. It's pretty cool. At least I do._

_Until Gallifrey is free, I am yours,_

Time Lord Victorious


	12. A Note From the Author

_Author's Note: Oh... Hey guys! Look at me being lazy and not actually writing anything. Okay, in my defense, I have been lazy, and completely uninterested in writing anything. However, due to the new series, I'm teeming with ideas for all of my fics. This one, and the other one. For those that read both of them, you get to see this twice, which I apologize for. _

_I started working on a Supernatural fic, which also takes up some of my time._

_I need to finish these..._

_I'm stupid. OKAY!_

_So today, after waking up and bursting into tears again because of 'The Reichenbach Fall' yesterday, I sat down and wrote a nearly 2,000 word long fic which I will be adding. Basically I'm rewriting the fic that I wrote before, the one I based on 'Alone on the Water' and replacing it with this better version. It's shorter, neater, and hopefully a tear jerker. _

_Probably not though._

_A_

_ N_

_ Y_

_ W_

_ A_

_ Y!_

_I've missed this. I'll be writing more, and I love all of you. Keep in touch, reviews are gold, and I shall hopefully be updating everything this weekend._

_Sorry for everything._

_Feel free to pelt me with rotten fruit._

_Much love!_

_Until Gallifrey is free, I am yours,_

__Time Lord Victorious


	13. On Being Ill

_Written because I was tired of being sad._

_Until Gallifrey is free, I am yours,_

_Time Lord Victorious_

John always brought him coffee when he didn't want it. And he never got the proportions right. But Sherlock drank it anyway. He never complained. Not usually.

Sherlock always complained about everything else John did though, so the day that Sherlock complained about his coffee, but didn't say a word about the fact that John left one of his jumpers on the couch, or that he left his socks in his shoes near the door like he knows Sherlock hates, John knew something was up.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" He asked it gently, not meaning to pry too much, but also wanting to help. Sherlock grumbled.

"Yes yes yes. Of course I'm fine." He crossed his arms in an almost childlike manner and glared at John. "However, this coffee is awful."

"What?" John looked rather surprised.

"This is the second cup you've brought me today, and it's only slightly better than the other one." Sherlock didn't finish his coffee, but instead dumped the contents onto the floor and retreated further into the cushions.

"Sherlock…" Sherlock simply glared. John sighed and places the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead to take his temperature. He quickly took his hand away and frowned. "Sherlock, you're sick."

"I'm not sick!"

"Your forehead is warm, and you're grouchy. You're sick." Sherlock frowned more.

"I don't-"

"Shut up." John took his mug and put the kettle on. "I'm making you tea, and you're drinking it." Sherlock didn't say a word.


	14. Public Places

_Sherlock Age 10_

The bus rides were always where the worst of the bullying took place. Sherlock didn't like to talk about it. First of all he didn't want to bother his brother, and second of all, Sherlock's father.

He didn't like to think about him either.

It was only when Sherlock returned home from public transportation with a bloody nose for the first time that Mycroft offered to take him to and from school. Sherlock was very grateful. He hated the bus. It was rather bumpy and loud. Too loud. All the children were shouting and screaming and gossiping. Things got thrown. They smelled, buzzed, and were extremely slow. The kids on the buses were snotty, rude, and highly unintelligent.

Sherlock learned this the first day fifth grade. Everyone in Ms. Cahampton's classroom received a name card and a seat with a small desk. Julia Cahampton had been informed via email, that a young Sherlock Holmes would be in her homeroom that year and that he needed to be treated with the upmost of care, sent by an unknown email and leaving no trace (Mycroft was sometimes a little too anonymous). This letter alarmed Ms. Cahampton but sure enough, a Sherlock Holmes was registered on her roster.

She sat him in the front row. Not because she wanted to keep an eye on him, but because she was worried that if she didn't, she'd receive another "creepy email".

It was hardly a surprise that the first fight between Sherlock and the rest of the world (meaning his classroom, because for him, that w_as _the rest of the world) broke out at the end of the first week of school. Of course he was pardoned because, hey, it was the first week of school, everyone was on edge. There was one kid, his name wasn't important, heck, even Sherlock didn't remember it, but he insulted the Holmes family and Sherlock just wasn't going to let that slide. His mother got called in and he went home with a bust lip and a black eye.

The other kid could barely stand.

Mycroft when easy on him, even kept it from father. Mother, however, did not. Sherlock was not allowed to do any of his experiments and was from that day on, not allowed to mention his family in respects to those at school.

In the second IN SCHOOL fight, Sherlock wasn't so lucky.

About two months into the school year, the subject came up that was rather delicate for a young Sherlock Holmes. It was the subject of maths that he already knew. Everyone assumed he was cheating and that he couldn't possibly be so smart. WRONG. However, it was the only 'logical' explanation that his peers and teachers could come up with. Sherlock Holmes was cheating.

Sherlock Holmes is NOT a cheater. Sherlock Holmes would NOT stand for it.

So Sherlock Holmes fought. And when he fought, he won. And then he was pulled away and he fought against that. In the end, he ended up being detained in a police car with a completely ridiculous pout on his face and blood streaming out of his nose.

That was the end of public school and transportation for Sherlock Holmes.

In his later years, Sherlock took cabs. He took the bus ONLY when he had to. Sherlock Holmes isn't one to opt for transportation that requires him to be in close quarters with several other people. He didn't like it. At all. So Sherlock learned to drive. He didn't deem the information important, but not unimportant enough to delete. He needed it sometimes. He could drive. He could get a cab. Whichever was more convenient for him.

And for John Watson of course.


	15. Special 1

_Author's Note: Short, no action or description, just audio. It's a special for V-Day, and I wrote a second bit that isn't done yet that I'll post tomorrow that is kind of a juxtaposition to this one. I like the second one better. It has description and good things in it. LOVE ME._

Until Gallifrey is free, I am yours,

Time Lord Victorious

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, I'm goin' out."<p>

"Where are you going?"

"Date."

"Oh? Which one is it this time? The teacher?"

"… It ended two weeks ago."

"Oh… Was it two weeks?"

"Yes, Sherlock! Two weeks!"

"Found yourself another then?"

"… Yes."

"Name?"

"Genevieve…"

"She…. Pretty?"

"Yes… Where is this going?"

"Just wanting to make sure you're…. Satisfied."

"Sherlock…."

"What?"

"I've got to go. I'm late."

"….. Go. I'm sure I can do this case by myself."

"We have a case?"

"Apparently it's Valentine's Day… So yes. There's a crime."

"….."

"Go on. You're late. Don't want you blaming me for the loss of this one."

"…."

"WHAT?"

"What's the case?"

"You want the case?"

"Yes."

"You're sitting back down…"

"Yes. I am."

"Who're you texting?"

"Genn."

"…. Why? Don't you have a date?"

"Not anymore."

"John?"

"What?"

"It's Valentine's Day. You cannot do something like that…"

"I think I just did."

"What does she say?"

"She broke up with me…"

"I'm sorry…"

"No no. It's fine. It's all fine."

"You…. Wanted to hear about the case?"

"Yeah. I do. I want to help."

"To… Help? On a holiday?"

"Problem?"

"No… No it's just odd."

"Odd? How?"

"Usually you're very… Disapproving."

"No. Just wanting a life."

"A life?"

"I've resigned myself to the fact that I do not have the opportunity."

"Is that my fault?"

"Partly."


	16. Special 2

AN ACCOUNT OF JOHN WATSON AND DATING;

AS MADE BY SHERLOCK HOLMES, HIS FLAT MATE AND BEST FRIEND

John Watson is always awkward on dates, especially the first date. I know, because I've watched him. In all honesty, it's quite funny to watch him blush and fumble for words.

Recently I've discovered that it's even worse during the first date…. On a holiday. Christmas is always hard for John. He tends to spend the time with his family and he enjoys taking the week off to try and convince his sister to stop drinking. He put his mother in a home and tries to visit her every holiday, just to say hi. On the rare occasion that he and I do not have a case, and his attempts to dissuade his sister have gone awry and his mother does not wish to see him, John makes a date. He goes with his conquest to a Christmas party and dinner at which he is given strange looks and approving nods. The mixed emotions really do his head in. The worst holiday for him, however, is Valentine's Day. The holiday has almost no point, it's silly, repetitious and manipulative. He thinks, that it is the best holiday in which to release his pent up sexual desires as well as a good opportunity to ease himself into a steady, more serious relationship.

He is wrong.

This past Valentine's day, our case arrived too late. John had left for his annual date with the new girlfriend. I do not remember her name, it is not of importance. She was pretty, by his standards of course. He seemed to enjoy her company, which really is a shame, because shortly thereafter, she dumped him for reasons unknown to me. Stupid girl. Didn't know what she had. And of course John blames me for it.

But I digress. The call came late in the evening, I do not know why I thought it might not come, but I must say it quite surprised and interested me. A case such as this could not be worked on my own. I needed both my blogger, and my doctor who, coincidentally, are the same person.

John was not answering my texts, or my calls. No. He was being difficult. For both of us.

It wasn't that he wasn't interested in the case, it was simply that he was more interested in getting, as he would put it, 'laid'. I, myself, do not understand such desires, but as a man of respectability, I allow him this night and others to relieve himself. Except for this year. This year it was nearly imperative that I had him. What is one to do when the one they are trying to reach will not contact them? They make their way towards them without permission. Some would call this stalking.

Of course John was not amused when I showed up in the middle of his date. No. He wasn't even close to being pleased. One must make sacrifice if one is to succeed.

"John," quoth I, "I need your help on this case."

"NO! Sherlock! I'm in the middle of a date!" Quoth he.

"But…. It's important John." I bent down and told him all about the case, I watched his eyes grow wide and felt very satisfied with myself. At that moment, his date decided that their relationship was over. She glared at me, took John to the side and in hushed tones tried to keep him. When John's interest in my case became very apparent, she told him to,

"Piss off and never talk to me again." She then indicated that he and I were in a relationship. I failed to correct her, it was not of import. John, however, was very offended by this. His date left in a furry and John glared at me. He has not, of late, spoken to me. The idea that I ruined his date and his relationship was and is firmly burned in his mind. We did, however, close the case.

Dear John,

You are being childish. Please stop this nonsense and do the shopping. You know I hate going out.

-SH


	17. Concerning August: An Author's Note

WELL! I won't make excuses, because I have none. Instead, I'll say this:

During summer vacation, I've written absolutely nothing. Well. Apart from a few things that don't go on websites like this. So... These things have been stagnating. So instead of making this a huge sob fest, I shall simply apologize. I am sorry for shirking, I will do better. Archive of Our Own (AO3) has captured my interest. You can reach my profile over there as well. My username is when_the_world_falls_down.  
>I was in a very 'Labyrinth' mood. Don't judge.<p>

ANYWAY. School is returning in about a week, so... I think, considering my rather appalling lack of updates during the past two months and the rather prolific writing I was producing earlier in the year, I think it is safe to say that I will be returning to you shortly. Hopefully I'll fall into the routine of school again rather quickly and will be able to use the creative part of my brain again.

ALSO! Update! I changed my username. I have no idea. Why. I started changing all the things that I'd done in the past to make the author's notes fit with the proper signature, and then I stopped. So. If you see that inconsistency, that's why.

You may all call me Prongs. My inbox is open, as always for prompts and the like. It will be wonderful seeing you all again.

_Mischief Managed_

_-P_


	18. Fool Me Once

Gasping out his life. That was a good way to describe it, Sherlock thought. Blood dripped steadily to the floor as he watched the man gasp out his life. Yes. That was what he was doing. Sherlock knew he should be appalled, that he should cringe and shrink away from the gruesome sight, but he couldn't help himself. It was tantalizing. If it were natural it'd be much less interesting and Sherlock would be bored. Not this time. This was different. Moriarty had set it up perfectly. Blood on his hands, a perfect set up. Sherlock had attempted to help, that was his first instinct, but the man was beyond all help when he'd arrived. It was a perfect way to set him up. So perfect it was almost beautiful. Sherlock was sure he'd appreciate it more if it wasn't him who was being framed.

The man stopped shaking, and his wounds oozed Sherlock dropped the weapon to the floor and sunk to his knees. Best to try and fix it while he could. Try and reclaim his good name. He knew it was almost futile, that there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it now, the damage was done. John… Sherlock pursed his lips as he attempted to clean the murder weapon, or what _could _be the murder weapon, of his fingerprints. That was when John raced around the corner. Sherlock had hoped that he wouldn't be present to see this, that he wouldn't be there to see his newly returned flat mate, best friend, arrested for something like this.

Moriarty was good. Sherlock had to give him that. Even after his death, Moriarty held all the cards.

Sherlock hadn't seen Sebastian slash the man to ribbons, but he knew who had done it. He knew all about the stray tiger Jim had picked up. It was a mockery. Jim with his own military pet. Though, Sebastian was ruthless, more of a match for Jim than John was for him. Sherlock was slightly envious. John had stagnated after his "death," whereas Sebastian Moran had become more active, taking up his employer's mantle, continuing on. It was admirable. Of course, Sebastian was different, not as careful, not as refined as his boss, but still. Sherlock had to hand it to the guy, he was doing a pretty good job.

John stopped in the mouth of the alley, a deep frown that only made him look older set on his face. Those frown lines, Sherlock realized, had been made deeper by his "suicide." Sherlock wasn't sure if John had fully forgiven him for the stunt, or for coming back, John had learned to shield himself better. It was slightly annoying.

But not right then. Right then, John's face was an open book. He was cursing Moriarty, cursing Sherlock, cursing everything that had led up to this. Because now there was a high possibility of John losing Sherlock again, and he wasn't sure if he could handle that. Sherlock could almost understand. He could almost sympathize. Actually. He _did _sympathize. He himself had been without John for three years, on the run, keeping himself safe from the underground, from Moran. He'd kept tabs of course, he'd talked to Mycroft, he'd watched John fall apart and then slowly build himself up again.

And Sherlock felt like he'd let John down.

John, of course, knew that Sherlock hadn't destroyed the dead man whose blood painted the walls and the pavement. But Lestrade, who'd lost faith once and couldn't afford to fall into that trap again, instantly raced down the alley. Sherlock stood, calmly, in a resigned fashion, and let the detective cuff him. He owed him, of course. He'd put the detective through hell. How could he be expected to believe him again, when last time Lestrade (or so it appeared) had been lead on, while Sherlock was the man behind most of the cases. It had yet to be proven that Sherlock was innocent, but the time would soon come. Sherlock knew, as he ducked into the cab, John standing hopelessly on the side lines, that he wouldn't be permitted bale, because they couldn't afford the possibility that Sherlock could run. He knew John would have helped him if he could. Sherlock would have to call Mycroft, explain the situation, and probably spend a night or two in prison until John could prove his innocence. He knew John had taken up his place, not to the extent that Sebastian Moran had filled his boss's shoes, but he'd helped a little.

Lestrade and John were talking in hushed tones. Sherlock was too far away to read their lips, though it appeared that Lestrade was apologizing. His heart was in the right place, but John didn't appear comforted. The only comforting thought that Sherlock could conceive was the fact that he was home. Home was good. After three years of having to leave, having to pretend that he was dead…

It was good to be home.

John wasn't so sure. Three years was a long time. He wasn't entirely convinced that he hadn't snapped, that he hadn't developed a psychosis. But he had to hope that it was reality. He should have known that when Sherlock came back, he'd bring the fire of hell with him, London's reckoning. John, of course, thought that Moriarty was back from the dead, much like Sherlock himself. But, while Sherlock hadn't honestly died...

Moriarty followed through with his power play.

And his play was proving to be every bit as full of promise as he had made it out to be. Moriarty owned London, he owned Sebastian Moran, he owned his underground criminal web. He owned it. Even from beyond the grave. Moriarty was right. His legacy would carry further than Sherlock's own. All Sherlock had was John to write about him. Moriarty had whispers, fear, his name was passed and his sticky web encased London. Sherlock was sure, now, that it always would.

The first night behind bars, Sherlock was cold. Physically and mentally now. John didn't come to visit him. Sherlock assumed he was trying to punish him for something, for letting this happen, for not fighting back. Something. Sherlock would take it. At least he cared. Mycroft came on the third day, with proof and the one Sebastian had pinned to save his own skin. Sebastian Moran, it appeared, was as ruthless as Moriarty, if sloppy.

John was sitting in his usual armchair, staring out the window when Sherlock appeared in the doorway, tired, but glad to be home. Sherlock simply stood there and watched him. John didn't say a word until Sherlock had closed the door behind him. He didn't move from the general area of the door. John turned, shot him a look before staring out the window again.

"Three years…" was what he managed to say, his voice cracked a bit at the end and he dropped his gaze into his lap, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock murmured. John didn't hear him. Or at least he pretended not to.

"Three years. Three years, Sherlock… Three. Not a word. I got married, you know…" he hadn't moved out of 221B, "And she left me too. I had just… I had just moved on, and she… Was taken from me. Three years, a wife, and you didn't call. You didn't say a _word_ and… Did you—" John looked up at Sherlock, fingers clenching in his lap, "Did you miss me, at all?"

"Yes. Yes of course," Sherlock replied, head hanging. It was for good reason he'd left. It was for John's protection. Sherlock was cursing himself now, for being soft, for coming back. John obviously hated him. He didn't want him. That's why he was saying these things.

"Because I missed you, a whole damn lot… I tried to… Replace you, you know."

Sherlock nodded again. He knew that, "I saw…"

John was silent, "You watched… Me? You kept tabs, didn't you…" it wasn't a question. John already knew the answer. He pressed his lips together in a thin line before speaking again, "How many knew that you weren't really dead?" he asked at last.

"Mycroft and Molly."

"That's it?"

"Yes." That's all Sherlock could afford.

"And… And why not me?" he asked, voice shaking a bit. John already had an idea as to why he couldn't know that his best friend was still alive but he still wanted to hear it.

"To protect you… To complete the story. To play the game and still win. I cheated, but that meant lying to you…" John hung his head,

"I visited your grave every day for a year…."

"I know…"

John fell silent. A thick, suffocating silence, where Sherlock begged for forgiveness and John tried to process everything, fell on the flat, holding them both fast. After several minutes of thick air, heavy with emotion, Sherlock finally spoke, not because John had decided anything, but because John had cared for him, John had visited his grave every day for a whole year. John went and John cared. John cared more than anyone, it would seem. And Sherlock couldn't stay silent for that. Not anymore. So, he spoke softly, eyes averted, hands clasped behind his back, his throat constricted slightly,

"Thank you."


End file.
